


second chances don't come around each day

by historemix



Category: Six - Marlow/Moss
Genre: Castles, Cell phones are the devil: more at 11, Gen, Hopefully., Period Typical Attitudes, Reincarnation, theyll get over it though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 08:48:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20043220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/historemix/pseuds/historemix
Summary: There was a woman sleeping in Anne Boleyn’s bedroom and no one could say how she got there.





	second chances don't come around each day

**Author's Note:**

> I stayed up till 3 in the morning doing research on the various castles in which this fic is set. I'm a huge fan of historical accuracy and I hope it shows in my writing! The first chapter and the next will focus primarily on Boleyn; future chapters will introduce the other five queens and hopefully will end with them all meeting. Let's hope I have the willpower to update this regularly.

There was a woman sleeping in Anne Boleyn’s bedroom and no one could say how she got there.

The groundskeeper of Hever Castle had found her while he had been conducting his daily walk of the castle grounds. It was 10 in the morning, two hours before Hever’s drawbridge was opened for tourists. As he ascended the spiral staircase to the castle’s upper floor, he heard it. 

“_ Jesu have mercy, to God I commend my soul -” _ It was a woman’s voice, low and determined, repeating the same phrase again and again: “ _ Jesu have mercy, to God I commend my soul, Jesu have mercy…” _

The staircase to Hever’s second floor opens directly into what most historians consider to be the most likely spot of Anne Boleyn’s childhood bedroom. The half-domed ceiling dates back to the fifteenth century, but the oak paneling and fireplace adorned with Tudor roses are only a century old. An elaborate wooden headboard with an inscription declaring it to have once been part of Anne’s bed rests against the wall; its authenticity is debated, but its presence allows visitors to imagine a luxurious four-poster bed fit for a future queen in the empty space.

“_ Jesu have mercy… _”

As Hever’s groundskeeper stepped into Anne’s room, he nearly tripped over that empty space.

There was a young woman in a linen gown sprawled on the floor in what seemed to be a fretful sleep. Her hair was dark and wild, like a lion’s mane, and her face was bent into a terrified expression. 

The groundskeeper instinctively reached for his walkie-talkie, but before he could grasp it, the woman bolted awake and began to heave. Tears streamed down her face and she gasped as if she was breathing for the first time. She gingerly brought her right index finger up to her neck, tracing around a line of raised scar tissue which circled her neck like a piece of jewelry. The groundskeeper’s alarm began to dissolve into curiosity, and he watched as the woman’s eyes darted around the room, finally settling on him. 

“You. What am I doing in this place?” she asked sharply. She seemed almost surprised by the sound of her own voice, as if she had been expecting something different to come out.

“I was about to ask the same of you, madam.” The groundskeeper gave her a gentle smile, though he was quite put off by this stranger. “How on Earth did you get into this room?”

"Sir, I am astonished at you, as I am by the strangeness by which I find myself here, whole and in one piece.” The woman furrowed her brow. “These are my chambers, though I never dreamt I’d ever return here again.” 

The groundskeeper barked out a laugh, and the woman frowned.

“You find me amusing, sir?” 

"You’re telling me that this is your bedroom,” the groundskeeper said as he glanced at a portrait on the wall. “So you’re saying that you’re Anne Boleyn.”

“I am.” Her frown deepened.

“Then I’m Henry VIII!” The groundskeeper laughed again, heartily, and the woman stared at him, mystified. “Miss, _ that _ is Anne Boleyn.” He pointed back to the portrait. “ _ You _are a trespasser and I need to know how the bloody hell you got into Hever Castle before I call security on you.” 

“I know as much of this as you, sir,” the woman said, narrowing her eyes, “which is to say that I know nothing at all.” She slowly rose to her feet, wobbling slightly before finding her balance. “I know that I commended my soul to the Lord this morning as I took my last sacrament. I know that I knelt before the eyes of hundreds on the Tower Green before my head was smitten from its place upon my shoulders. And I know that this is the bedroom of my girlhood, though it seems to me that much has been altered. Does this answer satisfy you?” 

The groundskeeper barely suppressed another laugh. This strange woman’s long-winded manner of speaking reminded him of the costumed actors who performed jousts at the castle on summer weekends. But her words seemed authentic - not boomed with the forced bravado of an actor reciting Shakespeare. As if she had spoken this way her whole life. He reached into his pocket - not for his walkie-talkie, but for his cell phone. There was only one person he could think who could clarify this situation. 

As the screen lit up, the woman’s eyes widened in fright. “_Mon dieu, _it is the devil!” If this trespasser was an actor, she was a dedicated one. 

The groundskeeper dialled a phone number. And he waited.

Dr. Gregory Phillips was in love with the past. As a boy, the specters of history had beckoned to him from his school books, and he had answered their call with enthusiasm. He was a historian, one of the most respected men in his field. Phillips had come to Hever Castle to curate a new exhibit on the various owners of the castle throughout history, and the castle staff had lent him a room in the Astor Wing for the weekend in gratitude. He was wandering the castle gardens when his phone began to ring. He didn’t know that by picking up the phone, he was about to find himself closer to the past than he had ever been before.

It was the groundskeeper. “Dr. Phillips, I hope I’m not bothering you,” he said.

“You’re not bothering me at all, Charles,” Phillips responded warmly. “Is there a problem?”

“You might say that, yes.” Phillips heard Charles shush someone on the other end of the line. “Doctor, I have here with me a woman who claims to be Anne Boleyn.”

“Oh?” Phillips raised an eyebrow. It was not his first encounter with people who believed themselves to be great figures of the past. One time, a graduate student so engrossed in his thesis on the Crusades had come to his office believing himself to be Charlemagne. Another woman had contacted him once describing visions from God that told her she was Joan of Arc. Perhaps this was a similar case. “How did she get into the castle?”

“I’m not quite sure. And neither is she. I-” A woman suddenly began to shriek. “_He speaks with a specter! Jesus protect me!” _Charles shushed her again. “Look - you’d better just come here and see for yourself. We’re in her bedroom.” The line went dead. 

Phillips swallowed his anxiety as he turned back towards the castle gates. Either this was another madwoman, or something very strange indeed had occurred at Hever Castle.

When Dr. Phillips finally arrived, Charles practically lit up. “Thank God you’re finally here. She’s refused to speak to me since I got off the phone with you.” He pointed to her, standing quietly near the window with her hands clasped. _ Praying, _he realized. He didn’t want to disturb her, but Charles seemed insistent. He delicately tapped her on the shoulder, and she jolted out of her reverie. 

“I’m sorry, Anne - may I call you Anne?” He took her in. The woman was clearly not the one in the portrait on the wall, but she had the same glint in her eyes. 

“Would you call me by another name, sir?” A wry grin began to form on her lips. “What is yours?”

Phillips smiled back. “Doctor Gregory Phillips,” he told her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He extended his hand, but she didn’t take it - she just stared.

“Ah, so you are a physician? Summoned to diagnose me with hysteria?” 

“Not that kind of doctor,” Phillips said with a laugh. “A doctor of history.” Anne nodded with respect. “I was hoping we could talk to you.” 

“I’ll not speak with that comrade of Satan,” Anne hissed, glaring at Charles. 

Phillips suddenly had an idea. A way to test Anne, without her knowing it. 

“No, just me and you.” He extended his hand to Anne once again. “I thought we’d speak in the Great Hall. You lead the way.” 

Anne hesitated. Phillips could almost see the gears turning in her mind. Finally, she took his hand. “Let us hope I still recall the way!” she laughed.

Phillips chuckled as he allowed Anne to lead him down the stairs. If she was who she said she was, Anne Boleyn was in for a shock.


End file.
